Lost In The Woods
by Pyre13
Summary: For a fraction of a second, Tom thinks this is it, this is where John Pope will break, and the pieces will go back together differently. - After the plane crash, Tom and Pope are forced to rely on each other to survive. JP/TM SLASH. First chapter stand alone. Will closely follow and rewrite the rest of the series. Also featuring future Tektor/Ben, Hal/Maggie and all our favourites.
1. A Pistol In Your Pocket

John Pope, if nothing else, had always considered himself to be an extremely pragmatic man; down right pessimistic in fact, and for all the long hard years of his life it had served him well and good. In fact the only times he'd ever been in right deep shit could without doubt be laid at the feet of those few and far between instances of "trying to do the right thing"... so when he woke coughing and spluttering in the deep, dark woods it wasn't exactly an outcome he hadn't pondered on the flight in.

Hacking up the smoke in his lungs, and doing a cursory perimeter sweep with his peripherals he had to grudgingly admit he hadn't thought he'd wake up at all if the tin can did get shot down.

A quick scan had shown him all he needed to know; Mason, lucky as ever, looking a damn sight better than a plane crash survivor had any right to be, watching him expectantly. Well, there were worse people he could have been stuck in the woods with than the luckiest son-of-bitch alive that was for sure, if nothing else they were guaranteed to fall into the lap of some helpful dwarves, who'd patch them up, feed them, probably give Mason a Harley and send them on their merry way with a pot of gold. General Camo Pants on the other hand...

"Bressler?"

"Dead." Figured.

"You pulled me out of that thing?" He really didn't need to ask but Mason's tight nod was enough to let him know he'd probably at least considered just leaving him there to barbecue. The dire line of thought was abruptly cut off as the low whine of beamers swept into range. Floodlights sprung up, all across the clearing the crash had created and spurred by a sudden flush of fright and instinct Pope swung down into a hollow. Damn Mason, and his ability to attract trouble no matter where he went.

The next few minutes of conversation went a long way to reminding Pope why he hated this absolute ass of a man; and the loss of a damn fine air plane isn't the biggest of slights on the ever growing list. Clutching his side he gasps, half wishing Mason _had_ left him there to burn. At least he wouldn't have to deal with this crap. He's pretty sure at least a couple of ribs are cracked, and his hip is throbbing in time to his pulse. Miraculously the thump to the head that's bleeding into his eyes hasn't progressed to a full blown migraine yet but it's certainly on its way. Mason's idiocy about wanting to move however is utter bullcrap. For one, those beamers aren't just doing a routine fly by, they're actively searching, and a whisker of movement is going to bring a volley of glowing explosive shit right down on their heads. It near makes his shrivelled black heart leap out of his chest when Mason jumps up to move out, and swinging out to catch his ankle and bring him down nearly makes him scream; for a brief second he genuinely considers grabbing Mason by the back of the head and smothering him in the pine cones but really... it's too much effort right now. Luckily reason wins out, and packed together, shoulder to shoulder in a low ditch they wait in terse silence for the glowing bastards to move along.

After the first two beamers move off, and they've moved to higher ground the Skitters move in, and for the second time in what is turning out to be a tiresome and patience wearing misadventure of a day, Tom Mason finds himself jammed in tight next to Pope in a ditch below a fallen tree. The tree much have originally been massive but the weather and rot has hollowed out several recesses along it mammoth length; regrettably only one of these is big enough for a person, and on the exposed hillside it has to do two. Tom doesn't consider himself a small man, at 6"1' he's always been happy with his height, now he'd trade Pope those inches happily, because the hole is bigger at the back than the front and despite vicious near silent arguing Pope had succeeded in shoving him in first. Tom has the passing fancy that Pope is claustrophobic, and thanks his lucky stars that he isn't, all he can see is a sliver of starlight above them, the rest of his view blocked by the substantial width of John Pope's shoulders. Stupidly he'd laid his leather jacket down to protect himself from the wet mulch and now at such close range Tom can see his biceps pebbled with goose bumps. It's almost enough to make him laugh in this ridiculous and life threatening situation. It's not until he starts violently shivering that Tom has to concede that he can't let him die of exposure, much as he'd like to.

It's a good three hours till sunrise, and despite the bitter cold seeping into his bones Pope is remarkably content, the angle he's lying at has crushed his possibly cracked ribs into the padding of his jacket and they've settled from a screeching howl down to a dull grumble. If only he could stop his teeth chattering it would be all well and good. Lost in his own thoughts he nearly shits himself when Mason grabs him by the arse of his belt and heaves him a few inches back, snug against the man's chest, the pain nearly draws a howl from him, even if the surprise and outrage didn't. Instead he grunts, deep in the back of his throat, and Mason pauses, having registered his error. Before Pope can roll over and sock him in the mouth for being a twat though the massive carpet of Masons Belstaff coat envelopes him. It's four sizes too big for Mason, something Pope has gleefully pointed out in the past (grudgingly it does mean he can fit a shotgun under it mind) but right now it envelopes the both of them just perfectly, and Pope's too cold too argue the compromising situation right now. Mason is as damp as he is, and the ice cold barrel of his Colt is digging painfully into Popes kidney where his wife beater has ridden up.

"That a pistol in your pocket or are you just happy to see me Professor," Pope grumbles mutinously, wiggling to try and dislodge the cold metal. Huffing in what could have been mistaken for good humor, Mason pulled back just enough to retrieve the pistol from its nylon holster strap, and _more_ than enough to let the sudden cold back in. Shuddering violently he only just resists the urge to lean back into the startling heat radiating from the other man. Damn woods, damn cold, damn Mason.

"Shit! It's as cold as a frost bitten hemorrhoid out here."

"Shh." Is the only reply he gets, the sounds of scavenging Skitters is still loud enough to set both their teeth on edge and the hum of a solitary beamer scouting the area is as persistent as ever, but Mason does lift both his arm, now holding the pistol, and the Belstaff and wrap both firmly over Popes prone form. The pistol, now tucked snugly against Popes belly is doing wonders to remind him that he isn't as fit as he used to be, and for one vain fraction of a second he direly hopes Mason isn't lingering on the thought of how soft that underbelly his hand is flush to really is. Pain wins over vanity quickly though, sucking in your gut is damn near impossible with possibly broken ribs and with a sulky huff Pope relaxes into the body damn near wrapped round him like a snake; and both seeking any lingering warmth they settle tightly against one another in the dark.

Somehow, somewhere, in the steadily building warmth Tom slips into a patchy slumber, and dreams of hunting deer with Hal the first year of the invasion. The scent of gunmetal and the sharp acrid whiff of a rifles muzzle flash muffled with a piece of gutter tube and some insulation foam; the deep gamey scent of the blood and the meat as they'd butchered it and laid strips to cure in the wood smoke. Jousting with the antlers for a moment and telling him about the uses the native American's had for the tendons and the velvet.

When he wakes, the scent of gunmetal and wood smoke lingers, and it takes him longer than it should to realise the comforting scent is all around him because his nose is buried in the hollow of Pope neck and shoulder. His first instinct is to dive back, probably blush and stammer an apology, but for the life of him he really can't be bothered, and he's too stiff and sore to try. He's not so insecure in his sexuality that he's frightened by waking up next to another man, and he's certainly not concerned considering they nearly froze to death last night. In the years since the invasion this isn't the first time he's woken up beside someone odd, crushed into a small space for warmth and safety; he's a bit surprised he's never been stuck in a hole with Pope before now actually... Instead he sighs, tickling his nose with the long hair that could really do with a wash if he's honest. Feeling well rested, he takes stock of last nights injuries.

The fingers of his right hand, which has dropped the pistol during the night, is wound tightly into the belly of Popes shirt, the heel of his hand pressed flat against the warm abdomen. Judging by the soft steady breathing Pope's still sound asleep; at least he's not shouting and throwing punches in defense of his molested honour; then again, Pope's a survivor of this war too, no way this is the first awkward situation _he's_ found himself in either. Even if they are a bit closer than Tom will admit to ever being those other times.

One of his knees is between Popes thighs, and he's snuggled up so close he's almost lying on top of the other man. In a fashion that he doesn't pause to think about his crotch and his thankfully too-tired-to-be-an-embarrassment cock is pressed snug up against the curve of Popes ass. Slowly attempting to extricate himself from both the shirt and Pope in general proves to be more difficult than he first considered, he's warm, and all around him the forest is blessedly silent. Pope smells of wood smoke, gunmetal and an underlying hint of something he can't quite place. Probably rot, from those damn fingers he keeps round his neck like a worldly warning.

Frowning as the spell breaks, Tom leans back, and obligingly, as if he's been awake this whole time Pope slides away and up out of the hole slightly, groaning all the way.

"You still owe me an air-plane," he grouses. He's exhausted, the pain in his ribs has only gotten worse the warmer he's gotten, but he's man enough to admit (at least to himself) there's not a power on this green Earth that would have made him crawl out from under Mason's coat tails into the cold either. It's been nearly a year since he joined up with the Second Mass and in nearly a year he's kept his head down and his balls blue. He knows the stories Maggie went spinning when she crept into the Mason Lollipop Guild and he knows there's not a bitch in Charleston or the Mass that wouldn't hang him out to dry on the Mason flagpole either because of it. No, it's been much easier to keep his pants on, and his nose in dirt of his own making rather than risk a harassment charge.

But it _had_ been lonely, aw hell, he'd never admit it, but the five years in prison, studying a trade and the library, and three more before the Skitters fell from the skies had been eight long years of self-induced solitude. He'd never say it out loud, not if you put a gun to his head, but he missed prison.

Living with his crew after the Skitters came had come close to being back there, the violence, and short rations. He'd gotten used to the constant fear of death, but he couldn't get used to the stupid.

He'd never felt a moments sorrow for the loss of his brother, didn't blame Maggie in the slightest for doing it neither; he'd grown up enough to know Billy was a stone about his neck, just waiting to drown him... but he did grudge her hanging _him_ up with those animals. All her pretty little views of what's wrong and right in the world, and the damn girl couldn't see for a second that if he'd stepped between her and his men he'd have been flung out as Skitter bait. It took a skilled hand to balance that kind of crazy and not end up eaten by it. Claiming her as his hadn't made her like him any better but it had stopped the beatings, and she'd grown a pair of balls to match the pistols she'd eventually adopted. He hadn't touched her though, and her attempts to charm him had been as easy to see through as good gin; make him love her; earn his protection.

Well hell, he'd learned to love her, sex or no sex, and she'd burned him left, right and centre the second something prettier came along. He almost felt sorry for the little Mason boy; like his father, he was soft. He'd fall hard, Maggie would have her faithful protector, and he'd have his fathers army. Pope envied her the pretty face, and tight squeeze between her legs that let her do it. Shit, he'd have tried it himself if anyone but Dan Weaver and Tom Mason had been the leaders of the Second Mass. Might have tried it anyway if they'd met under better circumstances.

As it was Mason's closeness the night before had rattled him, a man didn't get up close and personal like that unless he was missing something, cold be damned, and with a new baby just arrived, and a beautiful new mother for his little brood Mason should be as happy as a clam. The tight lines around his eyes, and his bodies instinctive craving for the comfort of another warm body however argued that all was not well in the happy little family.

Oh Pope knew where his own came from, he _was_ lonely, when he let himself think about his kids, and the wife he'd lost due to his own damn stupidity, he could have taken that shiny pistol and blown the back of his head clean away. He'd earned this life, he'd fucked it all up before the aliens had even appeared, throwing a good life, and a damn good family down the drain in a fit of temper.

The apocalypse was the best thing that had happened to him since, at least now he didn't have to pretend to be a happy, well adjusted human being when every ounce of humanity left to him had turned to rage and pain.

Almost, he wanted to grab Mason and shake him, tell him how fucking stupid he was being; what the fuck did he think he was doing looking for comfort in an enemy when he had a loving family, and a beautiful lover at home waiting for him. The sad emptiness in those grey eyes stopped him though. Something was _very_ wrong in the Mason brood.

He pondered it for hours after that, stalking moodily through the dense forest, thanking whoever was looking out for Mason that it hadn't rained again, and paying attention to the damn moss. Maybe he'd have been better studying native American's rather than cooking; he was a fish out of water in this back country and he grudgingly admitted, he'd be utterly lost without Masons knowledge.

His wife, Elaina, stunning little firecracker that she'd been, had been sweet for one thing, good food had been a direct path to her heart, and with nothing better to do than consider how he could possibly win her back after his release he'd flung himself into the culinary arts with voracity. Food and affection were forever linked in his mind ever since his father had drummed it into him as a boy that a man was the provider. Ironically, his Pa would probably have been able to teach him all the woodsy skills he'd have needed now if he'd ever bothered to listen.

Whether Mason was psychic or not Pope would never know but it was during this thought that he had obviously decided to pull up for the night, and handing him a bundling of kindling he demanded a fire. He knew for a fact his zippo was still in the plane. He was screwed.

Almost instantly Tom knew he'd struck a nerve, always proud to show off his skills, and how much _better_ he was, it was entirely out of character for Pope to refuse a task in such a manner. Ergo; Pope was embarrassed, and didn't know how.

"Are you going soft, Mason? It's not that cold." _That's not how you felt last night,_ Tom instantly thought biting his lip hard not to blurt it out loud. They'd both studiously avoided the topic entirely after they'd broken apart, and Tom was damn sure he wasn't going to bring it up even if Pope was shivering in his wife beater and black leather while Tom was snug in his great coat. Instead he took a breath and struck for calm; they'd walked miles into much thicker forest, the canopy above which was thick and damp would hide and disperse the smoke from a small campfire well enough that he reckoned they'd be safe. Safer than if they tried to sleep in the open without one anyway.

"It will be when the sun goes down," he reasoned, trying not to let the impatience make it into his tone. Instead he focused on the mystery of Pope not knowing how to make a fire.

"How could you survive this long without knowing how to make a fire?" he eventually pushed, genuinely curious. Watching from the corner of his eyes he was startled to see a flash of... _distress_ , there was no other word for it, cross the other man's features as he glanced about obviously looking for an answer or a distraction. Filing it away for consideration at a later date he got stuck into making the fire they would desperately need to keep warm; if nothing else the effort would warm him up.

Although he sat down, ostensibly to grumble and be an ass, Tom could see him watching carefully, cataloging everything in that ridiculous steel trap of a mind to be repeated, and perfected at a later date. Pope was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, tied up with neon pink ribbon of crazy. He had a near photographic memory, Tom had seen in it in action repeatedly; and flawless information recall. He was grudgingly brilliant with his hands, intuitive about people, and damn near psychic when it came to lancing straight to the heart of any given subject. All in all he'd have made a fine military officer, or an academic, in another life. Another world. Instead he shrouded himself in this cloak of stupidity until Tom was damn sure every now and then he accidentally believed it, at which point he tended to cock up royally.

It was endlessly frustrating for someone who'd spent their entire adult life in education, being taught and then teaching. He'd watched fabulous minds rot because they were bored, and the boredom inevitably led to trouble. The schooling system simply wasn't designed to deal with _clever_ outside of the box thinkers. They ended up falling into the habits of their peers, and dropping out to pursue a life of inevitable disappointment. It was frustrating beyond belief. Tom was a hard worker, he wasn't inherently clever like Pope, or those kids he'd watched consistently flunk out of school. He had to _work_ for every scrap of knowledge he gained, and every mark he ace'd. Where on a good day some of his peers would walk in still bug eyed from the night before, scrawl down an A+ and leave again to fall right back into whatever dive they'd managed to crawl out of, Tom spent his life researching, memorising, learning. In the end he had a high end teaching position and arrogant and disillusioned, because they were _cleverer_ than their successful friends, those gems of intellect would slide into the dirt. That kind of intellect was fleeting, and if it wasn't captured, challenged and channelled early it would slide off into the abyss.

And those clever eyes watched his every move, because finally, in this end of the world situation, that intellect had found its purpose; to survive. Maybe that was the issue; the modern world was too easy, remnants of the instincts and quick thinking that had made humans the dominant species simply couldn't be coerced into giving up their strive for _more_. To be faster, stronger, _better._

That killer instinct that was evident in Pope, Tector, and he admitted grudgingly, Ben; instinctual _cleverness_ that needed an outlet for the cold, and the logic, that constantly told them school was _boring_ , academia is _useless_ ; that was what made them predators. Five years ago, somewhere in there, he'd have settled down and written a thesis on the nature of man if the world hadn't been falling down around his ears. Instead he listened as Pope rambled, sarcasm rippling off him in waves, and he tried desperately to cut to the heart of the issue, tried with all his might to be _clever_ , rather than simply capable.

"I just got this image of young Tommy Mason, out there in the wilderness with his old man. Behold my son, the miracle of fire," Smug satisfaction rolled off Pope in waves. He had fire, and he had something to tease his favourite victim with. Smarting, Tom groused back.

"I just got an imagine of young Johnny Pope, sitting on his ass and making wise cracks while the other kids played." Wondered if it was true, had Pope had friends? Or, as Tom suspected had he been a lonely ostracised child, too intuitive for his own good and unable to comprehend the anger and dissatisfaction roiling within him. As expected the query was dodged with dismissive silence. He wouldn't give away shit if he could help it, wouldn't make himself weak in front of the enemy.

Instead Tom played a different card, and tentatively offered a weak spot to the wary predator.

"My father wasn't really the outdoors-man type," he confessed. It was an old hurt, and not one Pope could stir him to anger over, but the man would jump on it like a piece of good steak as a weakness.

"Too busy managing his stock portfolio, huh?" So that was part of the issue then, Pope thought he was privileged; that somehow just because he was a history professor he'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Instead of working three jobs just to pay his rent, and eating packet noodles for a year to finish his Doctorate.

"Owned a hardware store," he admitted. "Never made it past the 7th grade. But he knew his tools." Knew how to beat his son and wife with them too; but Tom wasn't going to let that slip.

"Well, sounds like my Norman Rockwell upbringing," And in that second Tom honestly would have bet his last bullet that Pope had had a much better upbringing than he had. He carried the scars of a man who'd learned to fear life as an adult, unlike Tom, who'd learned to fear his father very early.

"My father was a drunk," he admitted morosely. Grudgingly getting closer to the truth, but unable to pull himself away from what was beginning to be a full out bonding session. Was he this starved for attention, this fucking desperately lonely that he was admitted secrets he hadn't even told _Anne_ to _Pope_. The surprised look that the other man shot him is enough to tell him, yes, Pope had had a decent upbringing, a good family, he'd thrown it away later, no one who'd had a shit childhood could look that surprised when someone else had too. "Angry, mean drunk." He continued bitterly. Anger sweeping through him, _of course Pope had had a loving family, and had thrown it all away_. "There was nothing idyllic about my childhood." He confessed, and as if the rage had flowed out through his finger tips the ember he'd been building caught the alcohol he'd snitched from the med-pack and daubed on the wet kindling. And just like that his anger evaporated. Lots of people had shitty childhoods, he couldn't grudge Pope having had a good one; he'd no idea why and where it had all gone wrong. His father had been mean, and vicious, but he'd made his son into a man who could make fire, if only to keep himself warm when he was locked out at night, and he'd inadvertently steeled him for the pain and destruction of a war he would never see. "Except that maybe I survived it." And he had. Survived, and thrived; just long enough to pour his bleeding heart on Pope. Who was sending him concerned sidelong glances, as if he wasn't quite sure what to say any more; like he might have had the rug swept out from under him a little; and like an ant crawling up the back of his neck he could almost taste the faint, but distinct tang of sympathy laced concern.

He'd excused himself quickly after Mason's heart to heart; unsure where the sudden overwhelming urge to say something _comforting_ had come from; neither he nor Mason had any interest in hearing what he was likely to spout in that situation. He was after all, highly skilled at inflaming situations rather than soothing them. Somehow Masons... god he almost wanted to call him Tom now, how shitty was that? Somehow _his_ quiet and passionate little speech had sunk right in and pinched a nerve Pope hadn't known was still in there, and he'd felt utterly shitty because he'd had a loving family, a thick as shit, maniacal, and dog loyal brother and a beautiful, wickedly funny sister. His parents had still been smotheringly happy together when they'd both died in a car accident when he was 19: leaving him with a lovely home, enough money to see the kids through college and the eldest child in a family that didn't know how to function without it's Ma and Pa.

Well Billy had been too dumb for college, and too dumb to keep himself from ending up a crack head by the age of 17, shooting up and smacking about his girl, landing himself in juvie, and various short sprints in and out of prison right up until the Skitters broke atmo.

Selene, beautiful, kind Selene, at 12 years of age when she lost her Ma and Pa had been too young to be brought up by a big brother who didn't know how. She'd done well for herself in the end, leaving for Europe when she was 18 and taking the last of the money from their parents with her, they'd stayed in contact right up until he got busted for manslaughter. She'd forgiven him stealing that Harley trying to impress Elaina Salvatore, he'd married her and had two brats after all. But manslaughter had lost him everything, his wife, his kids, his job, and his degree in engineering. It was curtains all over again and five years in lock down hadn't done him any favours. He'd learned to be rough around the edge's maturing in Florida. He'd learned cruelty in prison.

Rules and regulations had suited him just fine, and he'd slipped into 'yes sir', 'thank you sir' quickly enough that the screws had mostly left him alone. He'd learned to be fast, and hard, and to strike without mercy after three near fatal stabbings; he'd learned when to duck his head, lower his eyes, and keep his mouth shut after a rigorous, and forced, education in how to curry favour amongst the inmates with power, and a wandering eye. The first eighteen months had taught him how to fight for his life, and when to bend to a greater power; the next eighteen learning how to cook had saved his arse, literally. There wasn't a man in the place who wouldn't do a favour for a nice bit of nosh, and Pope had suddenly found himself a valuable commodity for more than his pretty mouth.

So looking back, Pope couldn't hold the grudge, felt fucking guilty for even having built it to begin with, because he had made himself into the man he was by choice, not fate; and Mason, well if he was telling the truth, and not a man in the world could look like that while lying, he'd made gold from horse shit with the life he'd built for himself. And Pope had hated him for it.

Shouldering the shotgun he'd wandered out of camp with the vague promise of 'hunting', if nothing else he _could_ hunt; deer weren't quite as easy to find as Skitters but they sure went down faster even with a shotgun.

In the end he didn't find any deer, but a pond over the ridge provided ample volumes of the biggest frogs Pope had ever seen in his life. He'd sat by the edge thinking for a good long while about the Mason issue, stripping willow switches and spearing errant frogs. He'd even taken a minute to hunt around for anything recognisably herby, or anything that matched his mental catalogue of fungus but it wasn't the right time of year by a long shot. Eventually, as it approached twilight he had to concede he'd no more excuses to hide behind and trudged wearily back towards the muted glow not two hundred paces from where he'd set off. Mason would think he'd gone miles, but he'd needed the time to think and he'd done enough trekking recently to last his ribs several lifetimes.

Padding into camp he watched as the other man put away the shiny Colt, the pistol was a cracker, matt stainless steel with a claw hammer black rubber Hogue grip and extended mag. A damn fine piece, funny how even at the end of the world the good old US of A couldn't leave a good gun behind. It was prettier than it needed to be, but the stainless steel would likely outlast them all.

Settling himself gingerly down besides the remarkably welcome campfire he brandished the fat frogs with a grin, watching in righteous amusement as Masons eyebrows slanted down in a frown. Someone had obviously never eaten frogs-a-la-barbee before. It wasn't until he was groaning in complaint trying to spit them into the ground without leverage that the other man snapped into action.

Tom hadn't eaten frogs in years, and was distantly trying to remember if there were any types of poisonous frogs in America when the soft, and carefully muffled groans broke his concentration. Pope had returned as the subdued but victorious hunter, with possibly more frog than they could actually eat, but he had been gone a long time, and he was beat up as it was without adding another long hike onto his already long ass day. Snapping into action he crouched and helped Pope put the frogs where he wanted them, lending strength where Pope had obviously used his quota and more for the day.

As soon as they were finished he reached for the med-pack, before tugging sharply on Popes leather jacket.

"We need to bind your ribs. Get it off." Pope was an unmitigated ass but even Tom couldn't garner enough dislike for him right now to watch him moving in such obvious agony. The bright, sardonically raised eyebrow and the wide grin that greeted him however very nearly convinced him otherwise. The glimmer of bright amusement was _just_ enough to convince him this really was worth the effort.

"Why professor, are you trying to get me naked in the woods?" Refusing to rise to the bait Tom tugged the jacket collar a little more forcefully, sending a shiver of pain through the cocky asshole.

"Technically _half_ naked in the woods." He replied, proceeding to strip the jacket from the suddenly embarrassingly cooperative idiot. "Not even the interesting half." Confound the man, Tom was struggling hard now not to grin. There had always been a certain amount of camaraderie in flirting for Tom, and he'd made some of his closest friends that way, somehow this felt just a sliver different from hassling Dan about how pretty he looked in his new BDU'S though.

"Oh I dunno about that," Pope smirked heartily. Obviously enjoying the game much more than he was. "I'm told my mouth can be pretty _interesting_ at times." Blushing furiously Tom helped the moron out of his shirt, knowing fine well he'd made that reference more than once; usually in shock at the brief glimpses into Pope true genius mind. "And you can be damn sure these skilled chefs hands know how to be interesting..." The smirk was damn near lascivious now, compounded by the fact Pope had his good arm out of the sleeve of his wife beater, exposing a vivid slash of pale abdomen and ribs, gently pulling it over his head and finally down the arm on his injured side Tom breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was quickly replaced by a deep frown as he surveyed the damage.

"God you're an idiot," he muttered. Reaching out a sympathetic and curious hand to trace the vivid purple marbling splashed across a good foot square of his front and rear rib cage, he jerked the fingers back guiltily when Pope flinched and hissed between his teeth.

"Fuck Professor, keep your cold ass hands to yourself. That's not a finger painting." Snorting Tom rubbed his hands together rapidly to warm his fingers before going back to his careful pressure testing, the skin wasn't clean but it was a damn site cleaner than the rest of him and surprisingly silky smooth considering both his age and lifestyle. He was really starting to think he needed to get laid. A handful of times in three years really wasn't cutting it.

The bruises were vivid on the pale skin, and sensitive and he was obviously in a lot of pain but there were no obvious breaks, and he'd be lucky if he'd gotten away with a couple of minor fractures and a helluva bad bump. The near squealing agony of lifting his hand above his head pointed towards some intercostal muscle tearing but nothing that wouldn't heal with time, and rest. Something they were running low on. Resisting the urge to keep investigating the miles and miles of creamy skin Tom retrieved his nosy hands and turned to search through the med-pack; rummaging produced several rolls of self adhesive bandages, they were designed for ankles and such but they'd do the job well enough. Ripping open three packs he got placed one end on the unhurt side and did a couple of anchoring wraps.

"This is going to hurt," he warned.

"More than you calling my top half boring?" Pope groused. "Gimme that bit of kindling." Plucking the afore mentioned stick from the little pile by the fire Tom watched as he carefully bit down on it, took a deep breath and nodded. Quickly, knowing this was going to hurt like a bitch he pulled the wrapping tight and began to bind his chest. It wouldn't help much, but it might stop him causing any more damage till they could find a real doctor.

When it was finally done, Pope was white as a sheet and panting, he was bound up tight as a drum, but remembering Anne's strict lecturing, not so tight as to crush the ribs out of shape or force any protruding bone into a lung. They'd agreed to tend to the shrapnel wounds next so gently lowering his near apoplectic patient onto the ground by the fire Tom took a minute to turn the frogs as instructed, while Pope leant back against the log behind him, obviously attempting to gather himself after the ordeal of rib wrapping.

"Let's get this over with Professor," Pope demanded as soon as the last frog was turned; starving as he was they looked absolutely delicious to Tom. He'd gotten his breath back and was looking utterly murderous. He'd been a relatively good patient according to Anne when he'd been all shot up, but the enforced close quarters and gruelling conditions could get to any man Tom supposed, let alone a querulous arse like John Pope. Pulling the suturing kit closer he peeled open the little paper packet that held the sterile stitching needle, followed by several packets of antiseptic wipes. The wound was dry and dirty, and to be honest, Tom wasn't even sure if he should be stitching it so late after the fact but several wipes and judicious scrubbing later it was clean and oozing bright red blood, a generous application of anti-baterial cream later and he'd finished off the stitches as neatly as a grandmother darning baby socks. Pulling an adhesive pad from the kit he spent a minute more smoothing the skin with his thumb before absently plastering it over the wound. That would have to do.

The head wound wasn't nearly so easy, for one, Pope was adamant it would be fine, and was just a scratch, but the inch and a half long wound was still cracking and leaking blood into his eyes when he frowned.

"What is your problem?!" Tom eventually burst out, uncharitably reminded of trying to make his kids eat their vegetables the tone of voice had become so petulant. Anger and resentment flitted across his face and belatedly Tom realised _that_ was the issue; Pope had obviously gathered his courage though because just as petulantly as ever he huffed out a low, "Fuck you Mason!" before canting his head back like a dog and laying the side of his face on Tom's thigh. The intimate position nearly set him on fire; Pope sat at his feet with his head tipped back like that was an indescribably vulnerable position, throat bare to any whim Tom might take and eyes watching him equal parts furious and stubbornly defensive. His hands had made tight fists on his thighs, but he sat quietly.

Reaching out for more wipes Tom realised belatedly that his hands were shaking just slightly, and took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. There was absolutely nothing wrong with treating a fellow soldiers wounds, absolutely nothing worth getting punched over anyway. Cleaning away the accumulated blood and grit around the head wound he discovered it wasn't as bad as it had it looked. The gash was long but straight and shallow. The adhesive stitches in the case would be more than satisfactory, and gently he began to pinch the edges of the gash together. Ridiculously, smoothing each stitch down tight with his forefingers felt horrifically intimate, and damn near like a caress. Popes eyes had drifted shut somewhere during the proceedings and Tom wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

With his eyes closed, and his face relaxed Pope looked years younger than he was, the long hair framed a well proportioned and handsome face, with a nose that had been broken once or twice but had survived relatively unscathed to tell the tale. There was a tiny little tear-dropped shaped scar above the right bow of his upper lip where no beard would grow. All in all not bad looking man by any stretch of the imagination; if only he weren't so damn self-centered and such a copious asshole.

He shouldn't be indulging, even feigning sleep was dangerous because Mason knew him well enough to tell like as not, but the momentary comfort of being close to another human being even for a few dangerously stolen minutes was too tempting to resist. Mason had obviously noticed him 'sleeping' because he'd graduated from precise applications of butterfly stitches to absent minded stroking; whisking his thumb back and forth across the undamaged side of his forehead and temple in a manner that was decidedly distracting, and utterly enthralling.

He didn't really know how long they lingered there, but eventually the scent of overdone frog began to rouse him from his half slumber and he sat up with a groan at the crick in his neck. Rubbing the back of his neck he shot Mason a tight and guilty look.

"Sorry, I'm beat. Didn't mean to pass out on you Mother Theresa." snorting, and accepting the pathetic excuse for what it obviously was Mason packed away the remaining supplies and lobbed the empty paper packets into the fire. The bright flush of warmth from the flames reminded him that while sitting snuggled up with Mason had been nice, it was damn cold. Gingerly he ducked back into his shirt jacket without the need for help while Mason pulled the toasted frogs from the edges of the fire.

They'd crisped up slowly, and while some had blackened more than a little on the outside, the interiors were moist and juicy. It wasn't long before the pair of them were gorging on the feast, and damn if it wasn't one of the best things Pope could remember eating.

"I tell you," He murmured happily, feeling fat and warm and remarkably less sore. "A little white wine, lemon and garlic, cayenne pepper, it'd be almost edible." He grinned smugly, knowing fine well Mason had damn enjoyed his dinner. "You much of a cook Mason?"

"Nope. Rebecca did most of the cooking." Inordinately, this pleased Pope, and his sharp smile softened into something more approachable. "I used to make breakfast for the boys; on Saturdays sometimes. I liked the smell of bacon and hash browns in the house." Pope has been told more than once that his hash browns are better than his blow jobs, he never took offence, and suddenly this seems like much more valuable information. Seeking common ground he offers a little about himself, feigning interest in the last of his frogs legs.

"I wasn't much of a cook when my kids were around." He'd been too busy, but he'd always made the time to cook something nice for his old lady when she needed it. He'd never been much good at telling her how much he loved her other than with pancakes and syrup in the mornings.

"A boy and a girl," he confirms, surprised Mason has remembered at all that he has kids. "Brandon, and Tanya." After his mother.

"When was the last time you saw them?" _Too long ago_. Glancing up though there's no accusation in Masons eyes, only mild curiosity, as if this anecdote is a passing piece of undiscovered information from a good friend. Surprised, and cautiously pleased he nods "Alright," whatever this is, they are obviously following it down the rabbit hole after all. For a brief second he wonders why Tom hasn't mentioned the good Dr Glass since this whole shit storm hit the fan. He's beginning to suspect but there's no good way to ask that so he nods good-naturedly and continues. If Masons going to hate him, he might as well hate him now rather than later, and with all relevant info to hand.

"Five years, before the invasion." He admits, and despite the end to this story its a happy memory. The last time his son had looked at him with love and admiration, before his damn temper and chronic bad luck had sent it all to the wind.

"Me and my boy were working on his mini bike, this little old school Honda that his uncle gave him." As he tells the story he can visibly see Mason putting two and two together, but the righteous anger about the douche bag who'd nearly killed his son wasn't something he'd ever feel ashamed over. The courts had agreed with him, they'd only given him five years, just enough to lose his wife and kids before the world went to hell. Shit he couldn't even have told you how many people or Skitters he'd killed since then. Murder. In the old world.

He doesn't see it coming, watching the pain, guilt, shame, all of it, flitting across Popes face like a road map of his feelings; he should, and yet he doesn't. Somewhere, deep in his fucked up skull, he doesn't consider this man capable of stone cold murder, and he's surprised by that. He's seen Pope take plenty of hits, and come out swinging, come out bloodthirsty and cold, and poisonous with his rage. But looking at him now he sees a man who made a very big mistake, who knows that in that world, before the aliens came, he'd had a choice and he'd chosen wrong.

For a brief few moments he's overwhelmed by the disgust, reminded of all the foul things the man sitting by the fire with him has actually done, but suddenly there's an entirely new context.

Pope isn't telling him this story because he's proud, or to try and scare him, or any other macho bullshit reason... he's telling him because he thinks he deserves to know. Tit for tat. And maybe, because he's looking for just an ounce of forgiveness. Why Pope's decided his forgiveness is worth shit to him is beyond Tom's wildest imagination, but somehow, he has. John Pope is asking, hurting for, Tom Masons forgiveness, he continues before Tom can reply, and for a fraction of a second Tom thinks this is it, this is where John Pope will break, and the pieces will go back together differently. But the next words out of him aren't asking any more.

"You know what Mason? I was never cut out for the home life, homeowner crap, just never my thing you know." Tom doesn't know, because every cue Pope is sending off says he's lying, his body is screaming that he misses it, that it's eating him up inside that he messed it up on one stupid fit of temper. Tom's been there, he'd nearly killed Pope in a fit of temper, over nothing more than a fit of dignity and honour. He can't imagine what he'd have done if Pope had nearly killed one of his kids then had an attitude about it. In this world he might have shot him out right, might even had made it hurt first... he'd certainly have beaten him to a pulp. One square hit wouldn't have been enough; hadn't been enough when he'd insulted the memory of a kid he barely knew. Pope could take it, maybe that was why Pope was safe.

"And prison," he continues, musingly, "prison was easy. Prison I understood. That other stuff..."

He doesn't continue, and momentarily Tom is glad because his world view of John Pope has been turned on its head these last few hours. They've been steadily growing closer for weeks, working together on more missions, Pope bringing him information on trouble makers; trusting each other more, hell, even joking together on occasion. Tom _trusts_ him, would never have let him fly out with them if he didn't no matter what Pope tried to pull. He's starting to _rely_ on him. But he relies on the Berserker; the rage, and the cold, and the unfiltered _John Pope_ , who will do what needs to be done, because that's how his mind works. Who does what Tector won't, and what Tom can't bring himself to ask of Ben.

He'd told Dan that Pope and the Berserkers were a necessary evil once upon a time but it wasn't until he was actually in charge of them that Tom had really come to appreciate it. Pope's team would follow him to the ends of the Earth and for all the time he'd known them all that loyalty had never seemed justified or well placed. Now, Tom could see it, here and now Pope was letting him in, letting him see the cracks in the mask of the insurmountable legend that was _John Pope the Berserker King_. And despite months of wishing they could come to some sort of agreement, at least work together peaceably, he didn't know what to with it now the hand had been offered.

Standing slowly and preparing to go on watch, he considered his next words carefully, and thoughtlessly reached out for the shotgun; the sudden and violent lunge that Pope made for the gun startled him badly, and he realised belatedly what the gesture must have looked like from his point of view. Slowing his movements he dropped to his heels and didn't move to reach for the gun again. There was a near feral wildness to the other man eyes now, fear leaking in around the edges, he'd slipped up, lulled by Tom's own admissions he'd let too much slip; how much of this story did anyone else know? None? Tom rather thought he might be the first to hear it this side of the court room.

Watching Pope now, his next few words were crucial, this was the moment between waking up beside an ally tomorrow and waking up to an enemy. They'd both gotten over the shock of the plane crash, the odd intimacy they seemed to be building had gone beyond nerve racking and was steadily heading into curious territory but _this_ , how he reacted to _this_ was how the rest of their time together would be judged.

The answer was easy when he thought about it, was slipping guiltily back into its seat with a rapidly appearing flush colouring the high cheek bones; visible even below the dirt. That flinch, that instinctive reaction to a perceived threat where there was none had given him away entirely. Pope didn't consider himself as having any power here... oh he'd bluster and bullshit and make a lot of noise but that's what he always did. Here, now, with just the two of them, and this odd companionship blooming in the dark like a fragile night flower, he was utterly vulnerable. He'd lost focus and left himself wide open, and he was expecting rejection right down to his bones.

The words were chosen very carefully, and he held his gaze firmly as he said them, using full eye contact to drive the point home.

"Sleep Pope." He murmured. "I've got your back."


	2. A Pear For Your Thoughts

BADLANDS, CHARLESTON

The M14 was a cumbersome and painfully heavy weight dragging his shoulder down as they trotted out into the Badlands. Weavers blunt attempts to fold him back into the military portion of Charlestons watchdogs wasn't subtle, but under the circumstances it wasn't unwelcome either. The Berserkers had been laid up on guard dog duty for far too long, and Tector was passingly concerned he was getting fat sitting out in the sticks waiting for the next rat to scurry past. He wasn't even allowed to shoot the rats; though he'd picked up a sling shot in Popetown last night that would hopefully be making the days a bit more interesting. There was a girl on the corner in Charleston who made the most incredible Rat-Snakz and she'd give him dibs on the fat ones if he kept her supplied. Armageddon had confirmed one thing at least, MRE's really WERE the shittiest thing you could have for lunch.

Shuffling the shoulder strap and readjusting his arse in the saddle he eyed the riders around him. Tector was many things, but comfortable on the back of a ten tonne bag of crazy wasn't one of them. Weaver rode like someone had poured him into the saddle, and how his back wasn't curled up like a pretzel was a miracle, regardless the big horse beneath him was attentive and agile in response to an obviously experienced hand. Similarly both Maggie and Hal looked rather at home in the saddle even passing Matt back and forth between them every few miles; both of them were accustomed to scout riding which just as often featured horses as crotch rockets so that wasn't really very surprising. Ben, as usual, looked like he'd been trained for the job, despite the fact he'd probably only ridden a handful of times and never, to Tectors knowledge, been taught how; and for a fraction of a second he envied the boy the spikes in his back that made him god damned perfect at every single bloody thing he put his mind to. Not that he'd want them mind... Pope would skin him alive. But Tector was well aware of the fact he was widely considered a perfectionist; his refusal to share rifles was legendary and his skill with one was second to none; if they could weaponize that technology for soldiers... naw, shit, that was half the problem with the world before the aliens came!

Ben would have made a good sniper someday though, if he'd been more patient, but the boy was a brawler at heart, more at home on the battlefield with his knife than he was with his rifle, and in the thick of it no matter where he went. His hatred for the bugs was legendary and between training every spare minute he got, and taking every mission Weaver would allow he'd run himself into the body of a much older man. He'd grown in the last six months, topping Hal by a good half inch, his father by a hair, and leaving Tector a shitty two inches in his shadow. Bastard. Seventeen years of age, and a full decade younger than Tector's twenty-seven, he was turning into a force most Marines would have identified as the main threat in a fight. The long sleeved shirt was several sizes too big, probably an attempt to cover the obvious bulge of the metallic spikes that ran down his spine. It made a good job of hiding the spikes other than the one right between his shoulder blades but nothing could be done for the way it drew tight around the biceps and Tector had seen him sparring with Crazy Lee, there was a washboard stomach under there that he'd have paid good money for back in his Marine days. Getting distracted by it had lost Crazy Lee more matches than she'd willingly admit.

Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end he whipped his head round just in time to catch Dan Weavers eye and judiciously raised eyebrow. Bugger.

Putting his mind back on the job, and preying his cheeks weren't as red as they felt Tector went back to scanning the surrounding area and shuffled his butt in the saddle again, praying to anyone listening that the burger meat between his legs kept its cool.

The Badlands were well named in Ben's opinion, although No Man's Land might have been more appropriate. The streets were littered with the abandoned detritus that looting and storms had left scattered left and right, but the buildings themselves were mostly in good repair. Many of the gardens they passed had trees and lush flower beds peeking out from between gales of overgrown lawn, a desolate garden gnome or algae filled fountain springing out of the weeds like miniature mountain ranges. Here and there a few fruit trees bore the remnants of the autumn fruits, he dutifully memorised them to report back to the scouts and foragers that evening. The kitchens were up to their eyes canning the last of the hydroponics supplies but the community was barely feeding itself as it was, and a prolonged siege would kill Charleston outright if the Espheni had the sense to try it.

More and more the hunting teams were forced to travel further and further from the city proper, and the milk of the few goats being bred in the bowels of the city was set aside specifically for the pregnant and breastfeeding mothers.

All around him the city spread out, dead skin holding on to the living breathing heart of Charleston, one day, with any luck these houses would be filled with families, and children laughing again; the people who'd abandoned them might even be able to return home.

Ben had thought long and hard about after the war; with luck they'd finish it within a few years, but he hadn't resigned himself to a life of war, he'd welcomed it with open arms. He wasn't a survivor like Pope, taking his pain out on the enemy till he could go back to ruining his life the old fashioned way, and he wasn't a soldier like Tector or Dan, fighting because it was all they knew... the Espheni had taken that choice from him, created a weapon from the child he'd once been. Intelligence, he'd honed to a fine point with years of reading, studying and homework had turned to sarcasm and strategy. A quiet, bookish nature had been harrowed into restlessness and so much burning energy he didn't know how to calm it. Anne had gone a long way trying to turn the weapon back into the boy but it hadn't worked. All the reassurance in the world couldn't change the fact that simple biology had changed him, there wasn't any coming back from that. He couldn't rest, because the adrenaline wanted him to RUN, he couldn't sleep because his ears were LISTENING and he couldn't close his eyes, because his brain was telling him he'd MISS something. It made him the perfect soldier; and a broken shell of a human being.

It had been haunting him lately; Karen's obsession with tracking the rebel skitters, she'd been able to meld with him for hours and he was still sickened by the warped desire he'd felt for her. The Overlords were terrified about a full scale uprising, and somehow they were dealing with that by making Karen powerful, in the hopes she'd be able to find it; stop it. For the first time since he'd been released from the harness he'd had blessed _silence_ in his head, for the few moments she'd forced him into her arms. It made him sick.

Immunity to the control of the harness hadn't been a unique quirk of Red Eyes, but it was rare enough that they needed something more, and if they managed to localise the cause of the anomaly they could spread it throughout the hoard. A handful of rebels wasn't enough to take on the Overlords even with the human resistance: and the Volm, while powerful, were twenty-two against hundreds of thousands. They had been twenty-five when the pods landed seven months ago. But to turn the Overlords slave army loose would destroy them; what they had in intellect they lacked in numbers and without the Skitters it would only be so long before their mechanical army fell into disrepair and was destroyed. Karen had a plan though... Ben had felt it. Had been able to taste a whisper of triumph in her every thought, he'd allowed her to convince him it was the taste of freedom but in hindsight... Karen thought she'd already won.

Whatever was going on with Anne, they had to find her and Alexis before Karen did.

Turning the next corner had almost stopped his heart, and the big horse below had whickered in distress despite none of the humans paying it any mind, but Ben could smell it too. Blood. Fresh, and lots of it.

Anne hadn't become anything like a mother to him in the way she had to Matt, he didn't need a mother the way Matt did, but she had become important, and the thought of finding her broken and bloody, left out for the crows turned his stomach.

Dismounting he ascended the stairs a few steps behind Weaver and watched with cold dread as the older man flipped the body.

Relief, tinged with just a shade of guilt swept through him in a tsunami, _not Anne_ , god, if it had been Anne... but no, it wasn't, just some poor woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn't even clear who or what had killed her, if it had been skitters it was a messy job, and Ben was more inclined to believe she'd pissed off a group of thugs.

Matts assertion that they need to bury her doesn't surprise him, they're all facets of their father in one way or another and Matt's got his big soft heart and loving nature in spades; Hal on the other hand is very nearly a stranger these days with his dismissive attitude, and being too close to him makes the hairs on Bens neck stand on end. Crazy Lee, having caught him watching Hal more than once, says it's an Alpha male thing, but Bens not convinced he wants to know what that means.

"We don't even know her," the derision is clear in his tone, but he can't even look up the stairs.

"It doesn't matter," And it doesn't.

The shallow ditch Ben digs is a perfect fit, and the Jane Doe weighs nothing in his arms as Tector lowers her into the fresh loam. She's not been dead more than a couple of hours; he's glad, that whatever happened here it was quick. The wound on her face is superficial, it was a broken neck that killed her. As he settles her head down he can feel the vertebrae grinding together with a sickening rumble. It was either a Skitter or a bear because her neck is shattered beyond reckoning and anyone with the training to do such a good job wouldn't have bothered on this itty bitty thing.

Watching Weaver tuck her into the blanket they'd salvaged from the house he feels a brief pang of pity. She doesn't look much like Anne close up, but she reminds him vividly of another woman. Tugging his coat down briskly he stomps off and listens to the prayers with a tight frown.

It's Ben who finally notices him trailing behind their little entourage and pulls up his reigns to bring their horses side by side.

"You good?" He asks, tone light. He's lucky, Tector might have shoved him off his horse for pity.

"Just thinking," the gentle clunk of his boot nudging against Bens ankle with every stride of the horses is somehow ridiculously reassuring. It's not until Ben turns those high beam eyes on him that he caves though. Ben's got a way of looking at you that just rips right into your soul, and Tector's horrifically weak. "She reminded me of someone." He admits.

"Me too," Ben confesses absently. Like Tector isn't bearing his heart and soul here. Then again, he remembers, he hadn't really done that yet. "Reminds me of my Mom, right before we buried her Dad wrapped her up in this stupid tartan blanket. I don't even know where it came from, Mom hated tartan."

"She looks like my sister," he admits finally, fiddling with the strap on the M14.

"I didn't know you had a sister."

"Five years older'n me. Hadn't seen her for three years before all this shit started. I was meant to drive up and see her. She was in Washington," he laughs. "Getting a medal." Bens glance of sympathy isn't missed. Washington hadn't even lasted long enough to be told what was going on. It had been one of the first Neutrino bomb strikes, the Espheni had wiped it from the face of the Earth before they even knew they were there.

"What was the medal for?"

"She was in the Navy, Da was career military, me and Cat never really had a chance," laughing, even ruefully was enough to keep the building choke hold on his throat at bay.

"Cat?" Ah shit Ben's a good kid, knows how to steer the conversation just right.

"Short for Catherina, Ma was a helluva Catholic, and Da was a helluva soldier, she wanted Cat to be a doctor and me to follow her side of the family into the church, well Da mostly won that round. I became a Marine and started shooting people for a living and Cat ended up a Navy medic. Ma died of cancer not long after I hit Gunnery Sergeant but she'd not spoken a word to me since I went for sniper. Medic she could handle, but I was a killer through and through."

"That's bull crap Tector, and you know it!" Ben snarled. "You're not a killer!"

"Eighty-three confirmed kills in nine years Benjie," And god knows how many more since the aliens landed, he huffed. He'd been the youngest Gunnery Sergeant promotion since the Cold War, he was GOOD at killing people. He wasn't ashamed. But he wasn't going to let himself forget it either.

"You're not a killer Tector," Ben insisted, and watching him, the fervent look in the boy's eyes, he saw how much Ben wanted to believe it, maybe needed to believe it. Remembered vividly all of a sudden that Ben hadn't just killed Skitters in this war of kids and monsters. "There's a difference. There has to be." 'Otherwise, what am I?'

Sighing Tector risked taking one hand off the reigns to reach over and squeeze the lads knee. "There's a difference Benjie," he admitted. "But you need to find it for yourself." The hand that clasped tight on top of his held him like a vice, the palm warm and smooth on the back of his hand, and almost instinctively Bens fingers wound through his own catching on the rough trigger calluses. With his arm stretched it was just on the near side of uncomfortable, but Ben was staring out between his horses ears like he was weighing up the world, and even if his shoulder would suffer later Tector wasn't willing to wriggle free from that solid grasp.

They rode in silence for more than a little while in that odd stretched clutch, before Ben took his hand back, and with a final squeeze to the muscled knee under his hand Tector moved back to the relative security of two hands on the reigns and let the boy trot off to the head of the column alone.

FOREST, UNKNOWN LOCATION

His dreams, when he finally drifts off to sleep are twisted memories of blood and fire; his ears are ringing with the sound of his sons screaming and from far above Anne is reaching out to pull him from the flames. In the fraction of a second it takes for him to think he's safe, that he is loved she meets his gaze, and Karen's smirk races across her features as she throws him back to a pack of burning wolves, every one of them seemingly wearing John Popes feral grin. Every night he sees everyone he's lost, crying for him, laughing in maniacal delight, and the ever present, malevolent gaze of Karen watching him in the dark.

When the snake hits him in the face he's wrapped in the Espheni vines again, living embodiments of Karen's will, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, the cold smooth scales brushing his lips draws an instinctive, and gut wrenching bolt of fear from him. Scrambling to his feet, ready to kill whatever spiteful alien bastard is coming after him now he finds nothing but a merrily giggling John Pope. Any other morning, before all this, he'd have laughed too, but in this second, drenched in the terror of years of war, capture and brutal torture, he alights on rage pure and simple. It's childish, and born of fear; but this tension that's been steadily building between the two of them has reached boiling point. How dare he! _How dare he_! Snatching up the snake he throws it back in the mans face, taking childish spiteful delight in the brief flash of confusion and hurt that swings across his startled features. This, he thinks, this is where it all goes back to how it should be.

"It's a joke, you puss!" In another world, another lifetime. Here and now, Pope is the enemy, how could he have forgotten that. How could he have... disgust roils in his belly, mixing with heat and fanning the flames of his rage.

"Oh you think we're friends now?!" He demands, watching with cruel satisfaction as the confusion clears into hurt, and resignation, and just a hint of satisfaction. He doesn't get to feel vindicated by this reaction; "So what? We share a few campfire stories and now we're blood brothers?!" Yes, he thinks, that's exactly where they had been going, exactly where he'd taken them, but the thought is terrifying in the cold morning light. When Pope carelessly throws the snake back at him he can see it, he'll snort, turn away, pick up the Winchester and start hiking south. Shit, it might even blow over. Mason can't imagine anything worse right now so he reaches out and slams his palms against the mans chest, provoking him. Popes reply is weak at best, meant to knock sense into him, knock him out of whatever snit he's working himself into but all it does is enrage him further… The next shove is meant to hurt, angled just enough to put pressure on the bruised ribs, and he strikes back with all the force he can muster, blind with rage. When Pope swings for his head it's damn near predictable so Tom drops his shoulder and sinks his weight into Popes rib cage sending him careening back into the fallen log behind them. With his ribs it's a dangerous and painful attack, he can hear the grunt of agony somewhere in the back of his head but for the next few minutes after that all he remembers is rage, swing for swing, his hits landing but doing little damage. Popes nearly an even match for him on a good day but he's hurt and winded so when Tom sinks his fingers into his jacket and launches him into the air it's easier than it should be. His ribs are on fire where Pope's got in a good punch but it doesn't hurt enough, he wants it to _hurt_ , why doesn't it HURT?!

Yelling in frustration he pins him to the ground where he's landed and swings for his head. Popes done this with him before though, so when he turns his head to avoid the full force of the blow Tom loses his balance just enough for him to get in a glancing blow to the temple with his elbow throwing the bigger man off him. A boot in the chest and Mason is flung back into the log, momentarily stunned. He's in agony, his ribs are screaming and the fights not really in him to finish this but there's a glint in Masons eyes that says he might just want to kill him. All this for a fucking joke. Lying bastard should have just shot him in his sleep if he was this disgusted with him. But Mason's a lot of things, and a coward isn't one of them so Pope finds his feet and tackles him over the fallen tree into the moss. The scent of crushed pine needles wafts up all around him, and the thick stink of Masons rage. He smells like campfires and blood and old sweat.

Pinned between two logs it isn't until Mason picks up a branches and swings for him that he realises the other man really does intend to kill him, or is at least too far gone in his anger to care if he does. Bright, blinding agony sheets out his vision for a minute and he knows, instinctively _knows_ he cannot win this fight. If he can't get away, Mason will kill him. Reaching for his back pocket he concedes and pulls a long flick knife, but Mason's prepared, fucking Boy Scout is always prepared, and the long butterfly knife he pulls is still the superior weapon. Circling him Pope waits, breathing deep and harsh through his nose, blinking back the agony and trying not to think too hard about being left in the woods to rot.

Stupidly the knife in his hand sobers Tom a little, he's never fought another human being with a knife before and the ridiculous notion cools his temper a little, Pope pulled first and if he concentrates hard enough he vaguely remembers Dan telling him that's a defensive move, from a scared man. Pope thinks he wants to kill him. Maybe he does.

Popes crouched low, preparing for an attack, there's a snarl on his fat lips like a cornered wolf and that's when Tom realises this is dangerous, this isn't blowing off steam or settling debts, this is fuelled by fear, and something much darker than simple hate. And it's his fault. He's driven them from allies, to friends, to something else all in the space of twenty-four hours; has left an emotionally reeling Pope in his wake as he blundered on, running on blind instinct and now look where they are. This isn't them trying to kill each other... this is _him_ trying to kill _Pope_. Who's done nothing more than bow his head and accept everything Tom's thrown his way since this horrible trip began. There are actual fucking tears in his eyes, whether it's pain from the brutally abused ribs or something else Tom can't tell, doesn't want to know.

But in the microsecond before he can drop the knife, can laugh, can apologise, break the tension _somehow_ , in the second before he can _salvage_ this, a Skitters strident call rings out through the woods and the moment is broken.

Pope is the first to move, he's hurt, and he's frightened, and already fearing for his life, where simple anger has made Tom slow and stupid in the face of this new threat so it utterly baffles him that the man instantly turns his back on him and scarpers into the woods. Tom is a pace behind him, knife still in hand while Pope has salvaged the Winchester on the hoof but when he leaps into a pile of deadfall and tugs Tom down with him it's urgent and tinged with an edge of panic. For the third time in a day they are stuffed shoulder to shoulder in a hole together fearing for their lives, except Pope trusted him enough to turn his back. Tom had tried to _kill_ him, and Pope had given him his back, had tugged him down into the tight space without a second's hesitation. Had watched him tuck away the knife that could have gutted him and didn't even flinch when he drew the Colt instead. Pope is crazy to trust him with his life, but he does, even still burning from having to defend it.

Even with the Skitter bearing down on their position Tom feels like he's _ruined_ something. Like something precious had peaked out from beneath the underbrush, just for a second, and he'd reacted on reflex and shot it.

In the next minute it's Popes reflex that has shot something though, and before they know it they are hounding through the forest pursued from all sides. No time for emotional analysis here, despite Tom recent fascination with the subject.

"Move it Mason!" Pope yelps, hurtling down the incline.

"They're flanking us!" But suddenly it doesn't matter because they're up shit creek, or above it anyway. The river is loud and thrashing in his ears as he windmills to a halt just in time to save himself from pitching arse over heels into the rushing snow melt. Masons hand claps down on the base of his back and winds into his jacket pulling him back a few inches as he gasps at the drop.

Behind them the bugs are chittering in excitement and closing in fast.

"It was nice knowing you Mason," he quips, and incredibly, even giving the morning they've had; its true. It's been interesting, painful, a rollercoaster, and ending it so soon... is disappointing, but it's still been one of the highlights of this god damn apocalypse. Because Pope is brilliant with a shotgun, ingenious with mechanics, and positively gifted with a bottle of Bourbon, but growing up in the city, hundreds of miles from the ocean, he has never, ever learned how to swim. The roiling mass of water below him doesn't look half as inviting as taking his chances with the Skitters but Mason is backing up and Pope can read the intent in every line of his idiotic body.

"Get out of the way," Tom orders, readying himself for the leap; Pope has sunk his heels in holding the shotgun at the ready, they can't fight this, they're too hurt, running on adrenaline and fumes, but Pope's more scared of the water than he is of the Skitters so Tom makes the decision for him.

"No, no, no, I saw that movie, no way!" He's actually fucking shaking at the thought of the icy depths below.

"You got a better idea?" And because Tom knows for a fact that there isn't a better idea he starts running, drops his shoulder, wraps his arms round Popes waist as he screams and heaves them both down into the frothing water below.

Let me know if it's worth me writing more! Constructive criticism, ideas etc I love these pairings, and there isn't enough of it, good or bad…. But a little word here and there, good or bad, makes all the difference in the world!

I'm tentatively looking for a beta for this as well, I reread it so many times that I can't see the mistakes by the time I'm ready to actually post it. If you'd like to beta read please get in touch!


	3. River Run

BADLANDS, CHARLESTON

It's two hours and only three miles after the solemn funeral in the suburbs that they stop again for food and to consult the rough maps they have of the area. Ben has hauled up by an old conference pear tree standing on his saddle while he throws pears at Maggie, the horse below him is either spectacularly enjoying the rotten pears it's picking up or her and Ben have worked together before because she doesn't move an inch while he stands on one foot wrestling pears out of the tree and raining leaves down all around her.

Quickly though Maggie's backpack is full and Ben has launched himself off the saddle and into the tree, he's heaving Matt up beside him for a game of dodge the pear fifteen foot up while Weaver takes the lay of the land. Hal has set himself up as sentry on top of an old piece of wall but Tector trusts Ben's built in Skitter radar a lot more than Hal's eyes so when Maggie heaves him down onto the bench he lets himself relax for a minute on a seat that's not breathing.

"Flapjack?" She offers, pulling an MRE from her rucksack. "Strawberry or chocolate?" Snorting in disgust he picks the khaki vacuum packet out of her hand and peels open the 'chocolate flapjack'. As expected, it's a rock solid cake of compressed oats, with weevil sized specks of chocolate scattered across the top. Snitching a pear from the bag he slices into it with his knife and miraculously the combination isn't hellish.

"So..." she finally says, smiling gamely up at him through that mountain of wavy blond hair. "Ben, huh?"

Now Tector likes Maggie, has liked her since the day she saw Pope with his head stuck under the axle of the Range Rover and had planted her boot firmly in the seat of his pants, sending him tits over teakettle into the mud stranding the big jeep. He'd grinned for days afterwards. Hell she even knew how to handle those two little pearls she carried about in her armpits, and damn if that wasn't a turn on; but right then he could have stuck her head up her horses arse.

"The hell kinda pervert you think I am Mag's!?"

"The right kind," she winked back. Not even vaguely phased.

"He's 'sixteen'!"

"Seventeen... Going on forty," she snorted.

"Maggie I dunno what you got lodged up that in brain o' yours but..."

"Tector," she deadpanned. "It's cool. I think it's cute."

"You'd be the only one."

"Ahah! So you do!" Bugger.

"Do what?" He queried, feigning nonchalance.

"Fancy Ben stupid!" As if he needed the clarification.

"Maggie you're plum crazy, the hell you been smoking?"

"Nothing I didn't get from you," she snorted, finishing off the last of her flapjack and tossing the wrapper to the wind. In a city that was literally a bomb site littering was never going to make a difference but something still pinged in Tectors brain when she did it. Some things were ingrained more than others.

"Shit my Ma would have switched you bloody if she saw that," he muttered, watching the wrapper roll away in the breeze. The wide eyed look she gave him had turned abruptly sombre, as if she knew he wasn't exaggerating. Instead of saying anything about it though she rubbed her hands on her thighs and bumped shoulders with him.

"There were thirteen years between my Mum and Dad," she confessed. "Mum was a maths tutor at MIT, her and dad fell in love when he was a student. She left her post and moved to Acton to marry him as soon as he got his degree. She was thirty-eight when she had me. They were still together when the Skitters landed."

"You don't know what happened to them?"

"We stopped talking not long after I turned eighteen, they did everything they could to be great parents, and I broke their hearts."

"Aw hell Maggie, what you telling me that for?" Maggie's not a soft touch, and just looking at her he can see how much it's costing her to tell him this much.

"I thought I had all the time in the world," she admits, sending her gaze out down the street to where Hal is sitting. "I'd survived... a lot, by that point, and I was angry, I'd have gotten over it eventually and they'd have welcomed me back with open arms but then..."

"The ships came."

"You could both be dead tomorrow Tector," she told him, desperately clasping his hand in both of hers. For a moment she fiddled with the ring on his forefinger, twirling it and tugging it up slightly. There was a bright white band of clean skin below it. "Have a bath Tector." And with that she hauled her bag onto her shoulder, ducked her head and took off towards Hal and her horse.

-0

By the time they move out the clouds have moved in, and a dreary drizzle is fluttering down; smirking at Maggie, Tector makes a show of avoiding as much rain as he can but he can't help but watch in rapture when a few minutes later it starts to pour. Ben doesn't hide from the rain, doesn't hunch his shoulders like the rest of them, he lets the reigns go limp in his lap, hands palm up and fully relaxed, closes his eyes and cants his head all the way back in pure supplication to the sky. The water sluicing down the bridge of his nose, across his eyelids and down looks like floods of tears, but there's a ghost of a smile hanging about his lips that makes Tector think Ben loves the rain more than just about anything else. Besides high winds and fog, rain is just about a snipers worst enemy, lowering visibility, muffling your surroundings, filling up your barrel and letting moss grow in your nethers if you're pinned down for long enough. But watching Ben languish in it, and there's no other word that suites really, he'd happily let it rain every day from now till next Christmas. Maggie's more of a 'do as I say, not as I do' kind of person anyway Tector reckons, lifting both hands to scrub the months of accumulated waterproofing off his grotty face.

They ride on for several miles like that, and after a cursory face wash Tector can just about SEE the animosity rolling off Hal in waves at his little brother. He's been an unmitigated ass since they set out on this fools errand, but for the life of him Tector can't figure out why. He's as close to Anne as any of the boys, has just as much reason to miss her, but he's antsy and prickled, as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Listening to him lecture Maggie about Anne being smart enough to hide if she wanted to, he briefly wonders if for some reason Hal doesn't _want_ to find Anne. But that's ludicrous. He's been odd and prone to fits of sulkiness since the incident with Karen anyway, obstinate enough that most of the big guns had gotten tired of him bitching and moaning and put him back on gunner duty just to shut him up and get him out of the building. He'd been nothing but a liability on the raids but it had kept him happy, and more importantly quiet. Looking at him now Tector can't help but think the oldest Mason would rather be back in his wheelchair than out here with them.

Several paces behind him, Ben, who's been guiding his horse with his knees and what Tector can only assume is his hearing, because he certainly hasn't opened his eyes, snaps out of his near catatonic state, snatches up his reigns and kicks his horse forward quickly to the front of the pack, ten paces on he slings down out of the saddle and bends. Alexis' baby blanket. Soaked through, and filthy but miraculously blood free. How the hell did he know...?

"Dismount," Weaver whispers. "Spread out, let's see what we can see."

It takes seconds to find the Skitter tracks, interspersed with the human ones, Karen if Bens grave scowl is to be believed, though he doesn't say as much.

That's it then, a day lost in the rain, on a wild goose chase. The only question is did Anne go willingly or was she caught? The blanket suggests the later, but experience is teaching Tector that evidence lies.

Weaver is distraught, his old, craggy moonscape of a face displaying for all and sundry how he feels about this let down... how he feels knowing he's going to have to confess to Tom that in a three day political trip he lost not only his lover and the mother of his newest child, but said child as well. Weaver's taken Mason on like a son, or a brother, and Tector can see the responsibility falling heavily on his shoulders.

Maggie is worried, but oddly she is watching _Hal_ , Hal who is sour faced and obstinate, as usual these days. It's Matt who's scared, and Weaver, luckily, has the right answers.

"They've got her!"

"We can't be sure son."

"Rebel Skitters, they have spies in the Espheni system. If anyone can find Anne and Lexi, it's them."

"If they're still alive!"

"Listen," Weaver insists, bending to talk to Matt eye to eye. "Anne, and your baby sister are most certainly still alive! Alright?!"

"How can you be sure?"

"Because if they weren't we'd have found them by now. Now we don't give up hope, ever! You don't! And that's an order!"

Matt's obedient, if nothing else, and he's spent enough time at war that brutal honesty is more reassuring than platitudes, so he visibly brightens at Weavers assessment. It's true to a certain extent, but Tector's a soldier, in a way that these kids aren't, and he knows that enemy forces can have just as good results making valued members of teams disappear than leaving them to be found as martyrs.

But they don't need to hear that, and Weaver already knows it, so when they mount up to haul out he keeps his head down and his mouth shut.

FOREST, UNKNOWN LOCATION

When they finally drift into calm water Pope is nearly unconscious, gripping the Winchester like a life line and bobbing uncontrollably like a bloated corpse; paddling over to him Tom floats on his back, heavy in the big coat but buoyant and confident enough in the water to keep Pope against his chest and afloat. Gradually as he paddles them awkwardly to the shore the life seeps back into him and by the time they've reached the shore he's furious. The punch isn't entirely unexpected, and is wholly deserved, Pope over-swinging and stumbling right over him onto his back in the muck; but Tom's instinctive and reflexive reach for his pistol takes him by surprise; he's never been one to jump straight to violence.

"Do you want to die?!" He screams. "Try that again!" It's not until he's got it pointed right in Popes face that he realises what he's done. Again. Guilt washes over him, leaving a bitter cold even the river can't match in its wake.

"Let's finish it!" Pope yells at him, voice gruff and wracking. "Let's finish it!" and he doesn't want to die, but he can't think of one single reason in that second why Mason shouldn't put him down like the rabid dog he is. He's driven _Tom Mason_ to the desire for murder, surely that's a first. In that second, he thinks, he'd be ok if Tom pulled the trigger, he could handle that, because at least he knows it would be just and well deserved. But he can see it in his eyes that he won't, whatever this tangible, fragile and undefinable thing between them is or ever will be it's moved past the point where rage is a trigger. They've spent their worst on each other time and time again to no avail and here, with nothing standing in the way, it's not enough.

"It's finished," Mason concedes. "You win." And the sheer idiocy of the statement creeps up Popes throat like a cancer till he's gasping and giggling in the mud because fuck if Mason hasn't turned fractured ribs into breaks. _You win_. Ha.

"Do I wanna die," he giggles, holding tight to his throbbing chest. "That's rich. Mason, you honestly think we're getting out of here any other way?" Because really, the Skitters have tracked them unerringly, they've just travelled miles downriver, with no sense of where they might now be or what direction they need to go. Maybe he should have pushed to end it here. At least it would be quick.

Behind him though Masons shout of utter agony brings him about face with a little lick of panic, scanning the tree line he comes up short and it's a few seconds before he twigs that Masons ankle is a goner. Badly sprained, likely broken. Ha. Well there goes the infamous Mason luck.

Lying on the ground, brain back in gear Tom is beginning to panic, of all the injuries a leg injury is the one they can afford the least, without the ability to travel they're scuppered, and unable to move it won't be long before he freezes to death. Guilt wracks through him, and a little fear. He doesn't WANT to die alone in this godforsaken place. He doesn't want to die without seeing his boys again, without settling things with Anne, seeing his baby girl one last time. Shaking Weavers hand, making sure Charlestown and the Second Mass will be ok. He wants to see his boys grow up, wanted to see Maggie make an honest man of Hal finally... maybe even see Ben move on from losing Jimmy finally. Wallowing in the sudden rush of guilt and self-pity now that the adrenaline has worn off has left him cold and miserable so he barely hears it when Pope speaks and moves back to help him up.

"Let's get dry."

In the books, getting up is always the hardest part with a leg injury, but Pope was strong even in his exhaustion and agony so when he reached down and smothered his own howl of agony to haul Tom to his feet in one go, Tom couldn't howl either. It had probably hurt Popes ribs a lot more than Toms ankle to pull that off. He wasn't sure he'd have bothered if their roles had been reversed but the wet arm around his torso was more than welcome and it took everything he had left not to collapse onto that solid frame and just fall apart. Pope was as cold, wet and dirty as he was, and miracle of miracles Tom noticed... he'd finally lost his finger necklace. He was going to be upset about that when he noticed, not that it would take him long to replace it if they ever made it out of here but for now it made tucking his head and staring at the wide swatch of exposed chest a much less disturbing idea than normal. Anything to take his mind off the bone jarring agony lancing up from his ankle with every step.

His behaviour that morning was beginning to eat at him, it was wrong, he'd been in the wrong, and much as he'd like to deny it Pope had made a nice gesture... in Pope language. He'd seen him do similar things with the Berserkers, it was hazing, a bonding ritual of pranks and jokes meant to foster trust and camaraderie; he had absolutely no way of knowing that Tom had a phobia of all things rope, cable and vine like, the snake was an unhappy, but innocent coincidence.

"It's a phobia," he blurted. Gritting his teeth against the pain. In his peripherals Pope cocked his head, listening, but not forgiving. "When I was on the ship, Karen held me in vines she could control with... I don't know. Her mind. She would wrap them around my throat till I blacked out and fill my mouth with them so she didn't have to listen to me scream when she used the lightning staff."

"Shit," Pope muttered, heaving him up a slope and into the light tree cover. They had travelled a few hundred meters from the shore in the half hour or so he'd been distracting himself with his guilt and Popes chest and not far ahead, a rocky overhang stood promisingly in the middle of the woods.

"I was having a nightmare about the ship," about everything. "I shouldn't have reacted like that."

"Damn straight you shouldn't have fuck face," Pope accused, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground with a teeth rattling thump. Tom wasn't quite sure what he'd expected but an exhausted Pope stopping to gather fire wood wasn't it. Within minutes he'd returned with enough kindling and a dry piece of bark to use as the brace in a wood drill and with unerring accuracy he used his flick knife to cut the notch in it just as Tom had done himself the night before. Sitting back he watched in fascination as Popes photographic memory, and skilled hands, coaxed first an ember, and then a licking tongue of flame from the materials he'd gathered. Amused, and satisfied with his pondering the day before Tom smirked. Pope really was a marvel. An idiot, but a clever fascinating idiot nonetheless.

Banking the fire up high he peeled off his leather coat and hung it on a tiny lip of rock to dry before reaching out for Toms sodden Belstaff coat. It too went up beside the fire before Pope settled himself with a weary groan to the ground. Tom couldn't believe he was still moving after the day they'd had, he felt like he'd been bludgeoned by a troll and tossed down the side of the mountain. Hesitantly, and fearing the expected reaction he reached out careful fingers and tucked them into the loop of Popes belt, before staring resolutely into the fire and giving a commanding tug. If Pope was shocked he didn't show it, simply canted his head back and considered his profile for a second before sighing deep in his throat and with a pained groan shuffling himself over to warily lean his shoulder back on Toms chest. Tucking his arm round behind him Tom let his head droop to the stone wondering what he was doing starting this all over again... wasn't the definition of madness doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? Too exhausted to care he tucked his thumb into the far away belt loop, snugged Pope a little closer and shut his eyes. It was a long time before the other man relaxed and let his head fall back onto Toms collarbone but he tucked him under his chin sleepily nonetheless and broken, bloodied and exhausted they drifted off to sleep before the heat of the now blazing fire.

By the time Tom begins to wake again it's approaching late afternoon and the three or four hours of rest has done nothing more than highlight exactly how fucked he is. Pope is slouched against him, head pillowed on his chest and sleeping quietly, but with the judicious rinse off he'd had in the river his hair has fallen into smooth waves and his skin is pale without its sooty coating. He smells like campfires and pine needles, with just a touch of wet Labrador and Tom just about sobs because this is it. He's not walking out of here, and Pope can't carry him; they're both far too hurt, too tired and too world weary for any of that. In a way he's at peace with it; he's comfortable and warm, and if the last human contact he gets to luxuriate in is this then he thinks he could be ok with that. A sleeping Pope is a companionable Pope, who can't shout abuse at him for imagined slights, or exacerbate him into losing his temper.

These last few months they've very nearly built a repertoire, and while they'll never be family like him and Dan, Tom thinks he'd be lying if he said there isn't _something_ building here. Realistically he doesn't want to look too hard at it, because he's worried he'll find something, and terrified he won't. Pope is magnetic, all feral instinct and brutal, punishing edges; Tom likes to compare him to a wolf in his head cause it sounds noble and ferocious but he's more of a badger or a wolverine if he's committing to this analogy. He likes to picture him as a big wolverine in a hole, vibrating with indignation and defensive rage; all puffed fur, hissing and spitting and ready to take the face off anything that sticks its head where it doesn't belong.

Well, not even Pope can weasel them out of this one, they're hundreds of miles from Charleston and the mountains closing in around them suggest they're not finding civilisation anytime soon. Even if they could find shelter it'll be a week or more before Tom can put weight on his leg... it was a good run, but it's over now. He's had a wonderful life, with an incredible family, survived an alien invasion, became President of the (New) US of A... he's pretty happy with those accomplishments, and he'll be damned if the last thing he ever does is curse John Pope to die in the woods with him.

Oh hell he knows Pope well enough by now to know he won't leave, he's a feisty little shit when he wants to be and there's a certain grain of loyalty and honour to him that will demand he get them home despite his many personal grievances. Suddenly Tom regrets pulling him close earlier in the day, he'd needed it, and wanted it; begging with his body for forgiveness and maybe comfort, but Pope had come easily... easily enough that Tom couldn't deny he was aware of this too... whatever it was, and had actively chosen to accept the offered apology for what it was... had given him a chance. The necessary betrayal of that was going to cut deep, but Tom could _not_ let him die out here trying to save his worthless ass.

Taking a deep breath he let the warmth and scent of the man in his arms sink into him for a few moments, greedily cataloguing every second before closing his eyes and pretending to shift in his sleep. It was cowardly, but he wasn't feeling very brave all of a sudden.

Pope woke suddenly, hyper aware of the warmth below him shifting. Bright eyes popping open and scanning for a threat, he assessed the situation and sat up straight. He'd fallen asleep half pillowed on Masons chest, the mans arm was still comfortably slung around his waist, and he was in agony. The fire had burned down to barely embers and it felt like every joint in his body had seized up solid, his ribs were screaming and his neck felt like it had done a three sixty. Shuffling closer to the embers he put his fingers out to warm a little before dragging a larger log right onto the coals. It was late afternoon, heading quickly for evening and it wouldn't be long before the sun went down and they were in real trouble. Whatever hormone shift had caused Mason to want to snuggle would have to wait.

Nudging the man awake Pope busied himself checking to see if the hanging clothes had dried at all; they had mostly, just a few damp spots in the creases but more than warm enough for now. On the ground the sleepy professor was watching him thoughtfully.

"I've been thinking about that tracking device." He admitted. "There had to have been one on the plane." Here he paused, because they both knew the problem with that. "But no one was near it, you, me, Bressler, Cochise. That's it. Bressler scoured it himself before we left. I make a good bet you kept it clean before that."

"Couldn't have you lot keeping tabs on me if I decided to shoot for Mexico." Pope snorted. "It wasn't on the plane." There was only one logical place it had ever been.

"Me." Mason muttered, resigned. "The only person they could know was going for sure was me." He'd expected more of a reaction than that to be honest. "You're not surprised."

"You gonna bug out on me?"

"I take fortnightly scans on the Volm scanner, and Anne does a metal detection at the same time, I presume you know that, you know everything else."

"Is that an accusation, professor?"

Tom snorted.

"No, just an observation. You tend to have your fingers in a lot of pies, Pope."

"That I do professor," he freely admitted, crouching back down at Toms feet. "Gimme your belt." Raising his eyebrow Tom unbuckled his belt and struggled to heave it through the loops while half lying down. When it was eventually free he handed it to a smirking Pope.

"This is going to get tight." He warned, brandishing a piece of kindling before cinching it tight around Toms likely broken ankle. The next few seconds were a blur of white out agony, before Tom came to, only to realise he was whimpering and Pope was studying him with a soft look in his eyes that might just have been worry.

Let me know what you think and if you would prefer the different perspectives told in individual chapters or half and half! Ideas are always welcome as I certainly don't know where I'm going with this yet. I will definitely finish it though!


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